


jeanne dies at the end

by JemDoe



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Original Work
Genre: 15th Century, Catholic Character, F/F, Historical Inaccuracy, Inaccurate Catholicism, POV Alternating, the self indulgency jumped out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 08:34:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17019324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JemDoe/pseuds/JemDoe
Summary: Marie didn’t mind herself burning, but Jeanne? No, Jeanne didn’t deserve such cruel fate.(the irony isn’t noticed until the very last second)





	jeanne dies at the end

**Author's Note:**

> i did the absolute bare minimum research bc i honestly Do Not Care Enough & i wanted some wiggle room. this is self indulgence at it PEAK and I ain't giving a shit. anyway have fun bc i sure did!

Jeanne d’Arc marches to her pyre, head high. Her short hair ruffled in the wind, and a quiet smile decorated her face. _I am not afraid_ , she told herself.

_I was born to do this._

_I was born to save Jeanne._

(in the crowd, the real Jeanne d’Arc began to pray for a miracle that would never come)

* * *

Marie Cirasse was Jeanne d’Arc’s best friend since age five, when they met for the first time. Since age ten, they were responsible for their family’s flocks, which meant they just spent a lot of time together in fields, watching over the sheep and talking. Jeanne was nice and lovely, in Marie’s opinion, with her dark hair braided, loose clothes and undying kindness.

The only bad thing about Jeanne, Marie decided at the ripe old age of eleven, was her piousness. Sure, it wasn’t _that_ bad of a thing, but Marie was always amused when she could _see_ that Jeanne had a sinful thought, the way her legs almost trembled at the thought of not being able to confess as quickly as possible because of the sheep. Not that Marie herself was a heretic, of course, God forbid; she simply didn’t see the need to confess every single sin as soon as she committed it. Not that Marie wasn’t religious; she just didn’t have the same inclinations to believing in God, as heretic as that was.

But that wasn’t an issue; she loved Jeanne and her kindness and her piousness, which is why, age twelve, when the two are lying down in a shadowy patch of grass, that she kisses Jeanne. It doesn’t make sense, to Marie or to Jeanne, but it makes them feel nice - even though Jeanne is, at first, scandalized.

“We mustn’t!” She almost yells, sitting up too suddenly, and Marie inclines her head, sitting up as well, the tip of her own dark braid of hair tickling her back. “It isn’t right, and besides, God is watching!”

“I think God has better things to do than watch us tend to sheep, Jeanne,” Marie replied, quiet, and Jeanne bit her lower lip. She was wavering, and Marie... “But if you don’t want to, that’s fine by me. Just pretend it never happened.”

Marie laid down and closed her eyes, hands in the back of her head, wondering if she could sleep for a while. She could feel Jeanne hesitating by her side, but if her best friend didn’t want to kiss her, that was fine, and Marie wasn’t hurt by this, even though she knew that, if the priest knew, she would burn in the stake and so would Jeanne. Marie didn’t mind herself burning, but Jeanne? No, Jeanne didn’t deserve such cruel fate.

(the irony isn’t noticed until the very last second)

“You can…” Started Jeanne, and Marie opened her eyes, looking at Jeanne, who blushed all too prettily. “You can kiss me again, but only in the fields, alright? And don’t tell the priest.”

Marie sat and smiled, and kissed Jeanne softly once more.

* * *

Jeanne, when she first sees Saint Margaret, thinks she is an older Marie, because she is so pretty, with her long and dark flowing hair, dressed all in white, same smile and same eyes.

What alerts Jeanne to the fact this _isn’t_ her Marie is that fact is that she is older, that her head is crowned by a halo of light, and that she has a sword dirtied by blood. She can recognize her, after noticing that - it is Saint Margaret, after having killed the dragon that tempted her.

There is also the fact she is accompanied by two beautiful figures in white, halos crowning their head as well, and they are figures that Jeanne can put a name to as well: Saint Michael and his sword, Saint Catharine and the executioner’s sword.

She wanted to say something, but no words found their way to her mouth. Instead, she just kneeled, instinctively so.

“Jeanne d’Arc.” Said the voice of Saint Michael, and she rose her eyes. “We come in the name of God to give you a mission.”

A pause. Was it her turn to speak? It seemed like it.

(at least God didn’t seem to mind that she loved Marie, if He trusted her with a mission. Small mercies, she supposed)

“Whatever it is, I accept it.” She said, quietly, and the light they radiated warmed her to her core, blissful and peaceful.

“God has bestowed to you the mission of the liberation of France, Jeanne.”

The fact that she had been trusted with it made her want to smile, but it wouldn’t be respectful, and she looked up.

“If God wills it, then I shall.”

The trio of saints smiles at her, fading quietly under the high sun, and she cries for no reason she can discern.

* * *

At age thirteen, Jeanne sees Saint Michael, Saint Catherine, and Saint Margaret; Marie grew pretty used to those visions of the heavens, aware that, when Jeanne was dozing off in the field, watching the flock without truly seeing and mumbling softly in no language Marie could understand, she knew Jeanne was seeing the saints, who told her the secrets of a place Marie would only see after death.

The issue was what the holy ones said, in Marie’s humble, bordering on heretic opinion. They used to come to her once or twice a week, at most, and now...

“They told me, I swear by all that is holy they did, they told me to talk to the Dauphin, Marie, I swear!” Jeanne said, age sixteen, wild as an untamed beast, as Marie plaited her hair. Her hair felt soft under Marie’s hands, and she wondered what Jeanne was doing with it.

“Yes, you said that yesterday. You _truly_ think the Dauphin will listen to a peasant?” Marie replied, humming as she went strand over strand. “Especially one that says she sees the saints? He’ll call you mad!”

“Maybe I am, but I feel like I must tell him.” Jeanne insisted, voice quiet and sweet like she was telling a secret, and she inclined her head, dark eyes facing Marie’s also dark eyes. “It could turn the tide of this war, Marie.”

“Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe the Dauphin will truly believe that a peasant girl can win the battles against the English, battles we’ve been losing for longer than we’ve been alive! ” Maybe Marie was being too caustic, but Jeanne couldn’t _honestly_ be serious about her idea. Why would the Dauphin listen to Jeanne? Since when did the monarchy do anything good for its people?

* * *

Jeanne did not appear for a day, and then the next (and there were whispers but gossip is a sin and even though Marie wasn’t as pious as Jeanne she still refrained from sinning more than she already did), and then Catherine, Jeanne’s older sister, appeared with the sheep.

She left her flock to her own devices - they were _sheep_ , what troubles they could get into? - and went to Catherine, who seemed haggard and somewhat sleepy, stifling a yawn.

“Catherine, Catherine!” She called, running to her, and the girl - who looked like Jeanne, even if her hair was covered, even if her eyes weren’t quite as dark as Jeanne’s - looked at her. “Catherine, is Jeanne well? Is she sick?”

 _Was it the plague_ , was what Marie wanted to ask, but even mentioning it seemed to bring it to the village, and Marie did not want to lose anyone to the plague.

“Haven’t you heard?” Asked Catherine, yawning again. “Jeanne finally convinced uncle Durand to take her to Vaucouleurs again.”

Marie froze, at this answer. Jeanne had gone to Vaucouleurs, once, in July, to talk with the garrison commander, who had all but laughed in her face. Jeanne had been dejected, of course, that no one seemed to be taking her visions seriously, and Marie had kissed her freckles one by one until she smiled again.

She had thought this rejection would make Jeanne not try anymore, but -

“Why?” Marie didn’t mean to ask, but the word left her lips before she could do anything else. “Why is she doing such things?”

She knew why. Her visions of saints, who told her to go and find the Dauphin and fight a lost war.

“I ask myself the same, Marie.” Catherine gave her a pointed look, and Marie grabbed her skirts in closed fists, trying not to scream. “Shouldn’t you be taking care of your flock?”

Marie really wanted to say some not so approved by the church things to Catherine.

“Yes, thank you for reminding me of that. Have a blessed day, Catherine.” Marie managed, gritting through her teeth, and turned her back to Jeanne’s older sister before the girl could say anything.

* * *

Marie was worried sick every day because of Jeanne, trying to gather gossip from everyone, listening in to conversations, trying to get any news from Jeanne, and failing every day when she heard no word from Jeanne, no word from the battle, no word from no one. It frustrated her, and made her grit her teeth. Tending to the sheep was now worse: every shadow reminded her of Jeanne, and every rustling of the grass made her think Jeanne had come back to her.

At the end of March, she had heard that the Dauphin, in distant Chinon, had tried and failed to trick a peasant girl blessed by God, and in her heart, she knew Jeanne had managed to meet him, like she had wanted to. It made her heart soar, and a few moments later, it made her heart fall freely: Jeanne had been designated to be sent to try and lift the siege of Orleans.

She had heard of the siege - who hadn’t? -, and her heart felt tight, like God himself had put His hand between her ribs and was pressing on it. Marie feared that Jeanne would die, Marie feared Jeanne would get hurt, and Marie feared that _Jeanne would die_. Marie feared too much, and so, she did what every sensible girl with a forbidden love would do: she expressed her concern for Jeanne and went back to her duties.

Life was not a romantic song, where the knight saved the distressed princess and everything was fine and well. Life wasn’t a song, _period_. Marie, of all people, could not express more than that, could not grab a horse and ride off to Orleans to join Jeanne in the thick of the battle - she couldn’t even use a sword, for starters! -, and she could not be the knight to Jeanne.

It did not mean she couldn’t pray, however, so Marie wandered off to church, kneeled in one of the old, worn pews, clasped her hands, and prayed to the God that sent Jeanne the visions that led her to Orleans’ siege.

* * *

Jeanne was wounded in battle - as Saint Catherine told her, in the voice of Marie, almost chiding her for her carelessness like they still were a pair of girls who only took care of their sheep, and Jeanne had done her best not to smile at the thought of her Marie -, and does not falter, because it isn’t a surprise to her. Saint Michael told her this was going to happen, and she accepted it.

The men who were around her react funnily, if she is honest, but maybe it is the pain speaking. They all act as if she is some frail maiden (she isn’t, not with God by her side), like she is going to die if she spills blood, and had to do her best not to laugh.

They took her from the thick of the battle and cease all operations, the twilight bathing their concern in how to proceed without her. Jeanne let herself be taken away to a tent, where she took off her armor and looked at her wound.

“This won’t be the last, Jeanne.” Said Saint Catherine, over her shoulder, fingers ghosting over the wound. They felt as warm as Marie’s fingers.

“It is the first of many, then.” She told the holy one, and the Saint smiled at her. “May I ask a question?”

Jeanne had many questions. She wanted to ask if she will be able to liberate Orleans, she wanted to ask if she would be able to take France from the English, she wanted to ask if Marie was alright.

No, not now. Not Marie. She wouldn’t taint Marie with the shadow of the war, she wouldn’t ask foolish questions to the saints. Of course Marie was alright; she was safe, back home, and hopefully, had forgotten about Jeanne. The thought made her falter, a little, so she went back to her thoughts of war.

“I don’t see why not.” Saint Margaret said, kissing her forehead softly. She could feel the skin healing (witchcraft? holy mystery?), tingling numbly. “Ask, o maid of Orleans.”

Maid of Orleans. It feels mocking, it feels honorable.

She rose her eyes, and stares at Marie’s eyes in another face, and she reminds herself of her purpose. To liberate France. To be able to go back to Marie.

“How do I best attack them?”

The saints smiled.

* * *

The news came by slowly and in a trickle. Marie learned that the two old widows that lived near the main square, Catherine and Margaret, often had the best and most accurate reports of the battles. Somehow. Marie didn’t pry, and they didn’t tell.

It was thanks to them, however, that Marie was able to keep track of Jeanne. Marie made sure to give them some extra wool to spin, and listened to them as they did their usual gossip of war.

At the end of April, Jeanne arrived in Orleans. The first week of May, Jeanne launched an assault on the besieged city to drive out the English. The second week of May, Jeanne liberated the two, and she stared at the two crones, doubtful.

“Jeanne… Liberated Orleans?” She repeated, slowly, and one of them nodded. “She truly did it?”

“Seems like it, Marie.” Marie was so happy she could jump, but instead, she controlled herself, kept her chit-chat with the two, and then went to the church to thank God for guiding Jeanne’s hand, smiling with closed eyes and head bowed in prayer.

May came and went, and small battles Jeanne won came in small news, ripped pieces of paper with letters Marie couldn’t even decipher bringing in the good omens. Marie had never gone to church as much as she did. Sure, she did go to church pretty regularly, but nothing like Jeanne, who confessed her every sin. Jeanne probably saw more of the church’s interior than the priest himself, and… And thinking about Jeanne - sweet Jeanne with her dark hair and kind smile and devoted piety - _hurt_.

Even Jeanne’s name felt like the sting of a wasp - sharp pain in her skin, where she remembered Jeanne touching her. Jeanne populated her every thought and every waking hour, worry seeping through the cracks of her. She barely paid attention to everything else, trying to grasp Jeanne with fingers that never quite seemed to touch the other girl, like Jeanne was too far out of her reach for comfort.

Beginning of June, Jeanne was sent to another battle, and by the end of the month, she liberated other three cities from the English. By July, Jeanne took Reims by storm, and she was invited to the coronation of the Dauphin - the king, now, Marie guessed -, in a place of honor. She had never been prouder of Jeanne, and she (and all of France) waited for what was to come next.

What came next was _nothing_ , and Marie started to grow cynical when August came and went with no words from Jeanne, no news of cities being taken back by France from the English. Of course the king wouldn’t want to conquer other cities, when he was already crowned; why bother, after all, when the duty he wanted was already his and no one else’s? If only there was another solution to these royal squabbles other than them, Marie would accept it.

By the middle of September, it was like her silent complaining of no news of Jeanne had reached God’s ear and God had replied in kind, by smothering her in bad news: Jeanne had tried to conquer Paris, failed and got wounded, and a boy asked to marry Marie. Both of the news troubled her deeply, Jeanne more than the marriage proposal.

“You’re eighteen, Marie,” Her father had said, when she was putting the sheep to the pasture. “You should be thinking about marriage. Most girls your age are.”

“I will marry when France is free, father,” Marie replied, as icily as she could, trying to not turn her nose at the thought. Marrying a boy, when her dear Jeanne was out there, risking her life for France? No. Impossible. When Jeanne survived this war and liberated France, then Marie might consider marrying.

 _Hah_. Like she would ever think of marrying anyone. She wanted to marry Jeanne, but they couldn’t, so maybe Marie could suggest that she and Jeanne left for a convent or something, became brides of Christ, and stayed together for their entire lives. Wouldn’t that be nice?

Her father said nothing, and Marie didn’t deign him with an explanation. She supposed he chalked it for her not wanting Jeanne to miss the wedding or something akin to that, and Marie let her father have that thought.

But more importantly, Jeanne. Jeanne got wounded - a wound to the thigh, by a crossbolt, the two widows told her; Marie was ready to steal a horse from her neighbor and ride all the way down to Paris to tell Jeanne to stop _trying_ to do this thing, to stop listening to the visions of the saints, but how could she? There was no way Jeanne would ever listen to her.

And so, Marie sat quietly, cursing the people of Paris and the English and even God Himself.

* * *

The wound to her thigh wounds more her pride than her flesh, if Jeanne is honest with herself. She still could fight, still could take Paris, but the men - the men, who think they know everything - took her from the trenches.

Jeanne did not go pacifically, like a lamb for slaughter; she was taken from there screaming and roaring that she could still fight, even though warm blood bathed her thigh and blurred her vision.

When she was taken to her tent for medical care - someone has to clean her wound and suture it and two people have to hold her because she was still itching to get back.

After the failure of taking Paris, the saints don’t come for her anymore. Jeanne begged them to, but only silence greeted her in the empty room she called hers, and she longed to see Marie’s face once more.

* * *

Jeanne gets captured by the Burgundians, and news all but dried up, the two old widows absolutely useless. Marie smiled at them and went to find new people to talk with, trying to gather any scraps from Jeanne.

Alas, it was not to be - Marie heard nothing but rumors of Jeanne trying to escape her captivity, and she knew which were true and which weren’t by simply _knowing_ Jeanne. Sadly, most of them seemed true, because when Jeanne had a mission she felt she had to do, she stopped at nothing.

(when she hears Jeanne jumped down a tower and fell safe Marie, once more, felt the itch to steal a horse and ride to Beaurevoir and tell Jeanne to stop, to help her escape, to...)

The months passed, and summer came and went and nothing but worry in Marie’s heart and doubt of God until January, when men arrived asking about Jeanne.

She looked at them with shifty eyes, as they tried to find anything bad about Jeanne. She could sense the devil in them, snaking through their hearts, and she made sure she said nothing but good things about Jeanne to them, when they asked her, and prods them quietly with her questions about this entire thing, pretending to be a sweet, naive little shepherd who had a friendship with Jeanne. Dear Jeanne, dear and sweet and innocent Jeanne. Who could ever say something bad about sweet, kind and pious Jeanne?

At least this lets her know there is something going down with Jeanne. She wants to flee with them, ride in their shadow and let them guide her to Jeanne, let her free her dear Jeanne, but she cannot, because Jeanne isn’t guilty, and helping her escape isn’t exactly something someone innocent does.

It doesn’t mean Marie doesn’t keep her ears out there, waiting, listening, quietly hoping for any news of Jeanne. After the men leave, early February, there is only silence everywhere.

* * *

“Are you in God’s grace?” The judge asks of her, and it is a mockery, and Jeanne knows this. This entire farce of a trial is a mockery. The English thought her a witch, and the French - for who she had spilled blood for - thought her a lost cause. Jeanne was neither; she was just someone who God had given a mission.

Was she in God’s grace? Jeanne could not answer. The saints, before they left, they had told her everything she needed to know.

“If I am not, then may God put me there. If I am, then may God keep me there.” Was her reply, head high, short hair tickling her ears.

She can almost hear Marie laughing when the judges are outraged.

* * *

There is no news about Jeanne until May, that is. When May comes and is almost becoming June, she hears Jeanne has been judged as guilty, sentenced to burn at the stake for charges she doesn’t understand and Marie cannot possibly control her itch anymore.

Muttering a prayer (our father who art in heaven), she steals supplies from her own family and the neighbor’s fastest horse and rides to Rouen. She has to trade horses midway (and by _trade,_ Marie means _stealing_ ; it’s another prayer on her lips, but for Jeanne, Marie doesn’t mind meeting the devil), but it’s too late; she arrives in Rouen a day before the scheduled execution of Jeanne.

She enters the city with her horse, hidden between a merchant caravan, and finds herself in the middle of the square, where a pyre is being built. She grimaces at that, and starts listening to every possible rumor, trying to track down Jeanne.

(a beggar tells her where Jeanne is after she arranged some food and lodging for him, her stolen horse a small price to pay; he says his name is Michael and that Jeanne can be found at the Rouen Castle, and even told her the times the guards shifted turns, so she could aid Jeanne escape.)

(Marie wasn’t one to be superstitious, but the fact that the man is called Michael makes her waver a little. Catherine, Margaret, and now Michael. What are the odds?)

* * *

“Jeanne!” Marie called, opening the door to Jeanne’s prison with stolen (hail mary, full of grace) keys, and Jeanne, short-haired and too thin, looked at her with calm, clear dark eyes. Marie took off the hood of her cape, revealing herself.

“Marie.” And then Jeanne smiled, so kind and pious and lovely, as Marie closed the door behind her. “God has answered my prayers and sent me a vision of you before my death.”

“What?” Marie frowned, approaching Jeanne, touching her arm. There was a scar under her fingers, and Marie could feel it even through the thin male clothes Jeanne wore. “I am no vision. I am here to take you from here.”

Jeanne blinked once, twice, and then thrice, surprised. And then, she shook her head.

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said no,” Jeanne said, sitting in her uncomfortable-looking pile of hay. “I was made for this.”

“Made to burn at the stake like a witch?” Marie retorted, sitting by Jeanne’s side, and Jeanne bit her lower lip. She was too pale, and Marie wanted to have a sword herself, to cut all the men that made her be in this pitiful state. “No. No, no, _no_. I’m not accepting this, Jeanne. You were made to liberate France.”

Jeanne looked too sad, and honestly, Marie didn’t believe what she said, but it seemed like what Jeanne wanted to hear.

It wasn’t.

“Seems like I failed at that.” She laughed, too dry, too uncharacteristic, and Marie held Jeanne’s gaunt face on her hand, kissing her softly, and Jeanne melted into the kiss, leaning down. When they separated, tears stained Jeanne’s face, and she could feel the heat in her eyes. “Marie…”

“Jeanne. Please, please, let us go. We can go to a nunnery, we can…” Marie started, despair flowing through her veins as she knew their time was coming to an end. “We can be together.”

“We cannot. I must die.” Jeanne insisted, and Marie bit her lower lip, a dangerous idea forming itself on her mind. “For France, I must die.”

Jeanne d’Arc must die, yes. But who was Jeanne d’Arc, really, at this point, if not a mythical figure? Marie didn’t have Jeanne’s war brain or her visions, and Jeanne still could help people, even if it was from the sidelines.

“Let me die for you, then.” Marie proposed, and Jeanne looked dumbfounded at her. “You can save people, Jeanne. I cannot, but you can.”

“Marie.” Jeanne started, and put a hand over Marie’s own. “Marie, I cannot… The visions, they...”

“I do not have the visions, Jeanne. You do. Save France. Remember me. That’s all I ask for.” Marie undid her cape, and let it fall to the floor, grabbing the knife she had kept with her as she rose up, Jeanne watching her quietly. “Let’s change clothes. Take off yours, I’ll cut my hair.”

“Marie…” Jeanne started, and Marie shook her head. No, she couldn’t hear anything more on this subject. She had made up her mind.

They changed clothes, Jeanne tying the male outfit for Marie, who had never done as such, as she cut her hair like Jeanne’s own. They looked so alike, but it was the eyes - Marie didn’t have the same pious eyes.

“Kiss me before you leave,” Marie asked, so quietly she thought she hadn’t been heard, but Jeanne did it nonetheless.

* * *

Marie Cirasse marched to a pyre that wasn’t her own holding a crucifix, and an English soldier had given her a small wooden cross that wasn’t meant for her. She had accepted it nonetheless, thanking Christ the Lord, and walked to her death.

She looked around the crowd until she found Jeanne’s dark eyes (Jeanne, Jeanne, Jeanne, who was so pious and kind and sweet and who did not deserve to die at a stake), and accompanied Jeanne in the prayer she seemed to be muttering.

They took the crucifix from her as they tied her to the wooden pole, the English saying things in their native tongue she couldn’t comprehend, but that was fine. What mattered was that Jeanne was safe, her prayers growing louder, trying to make Jeanne hear her for the last time.

The executioner lit the pyre.

(Jeanne stood and watched until the last ember was completely burnt, until Marie’s body was nothing but a sheen of ashes in the Seine, and only then she left.)

(there is a wandering priest in France for a few years after Jeanne d’Arc dies. They say he was pious and good and had the sweetest, quietest voice, and that he became a priest because his lover had died because of the English, and they say he called himself Jean Cirasse.)


End file.
